


Prayers Answered

by monicawoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Churches & Cathedrals, Confessional, Demon Blood, Demons, Gen, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Prayer, Psychic Abilities, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: written for the boy king Sam discord server prompt: Sam has grown up in a very religious environment. He's devoted, he goes to church, he prays. He knows that God is with him, because he listens to his prayers. But as Sam grows older, he realizes it's not God that's been listening. And he realizes that he's not asking - he's been ordering, and his loyal servants would never deny their King.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 162
Collections: BoyKingSam discord server prompt-fight fills





	Prayers Answered

Sam bowed his head, closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. “I don’t know if you’re there, or if you’re listening…” all his prayers started this way, regardless of his father's insistence that God was always listening, always watching. “...but if you are, I need help.” Sam kept his eyes shut, breathing in the scent of aged wood and cold incense.

He was alone in the church—he spent a lot of his time alone in churches. Whenever Dad and Dean went on hunts together, they dropped Sam off at the nearest church. It was for his safety, Dad said, and for his own good. He should use the time to commune with God.

Faith wasn’t easy for Sam. But his father had made it clear that it wasn't optional. He'd raised Dean and Sam with a single-minded purpose--train them to hunt evil, and to hunt evil, they had to be attuned with good. “ _You need to pray, Sam,” he told him over and over, “Pray for God’s guidance. Pray for his help to keep you away from evil. You have to be good. You have to be.”_

It seemed painfully clear to Sam though that Dad took it for granted Dean had plenty of good in him already, while Sam required extra help. Not just because of how he talked to Sam, it was more than that: the way he'd catch Dad looking at him sideways when they entered churches together. The way he'd watch Sam when he was trying to pray—not just to make sure Sam was really doing it, more like he was looking for something else.

Sam liked churches, actually. The silence of them, the sanctity, the sanctuary. Or so he told himself. Sometimes, the churches gave him goosebumps when he crossed the threshold. But they always went away after his first prayer.

"I need your help," Sam said, pulling his thoughts back to his prayer. "Dean and Dad—the hunt they're going on tonight—Dean told me it's not that dangerous. He tried to play it off like it's no big deal, but I read up on these harpies they're hunting and if Dean gets scratched or bit, he's as good as dead. There's no antidote to their toxin." Sam took a breath, trying to calm his nerves. He was still angry about being left behind. He was twelve. Old enough to be useful, and _not_ a liability, no matter what Dad said."Please, _please_ —don't let them get hurt."

The air around Sam whispered, like it often seemed to do when he prayed. His own mind, probably, playing tricks on him to make him feel like it wasn't just a desperate echo of his own words.

But Dean and Dad came back without a scratch on them, Dean talking about some big assist they'd gotten from another hunter _with a friggin' flamethrower, Sammy!_

Sam didn’t know if his prayer had made a difference, but either way, he was grateful.

#

Things didn’t get better when he got older, they got worse. Switching schools all the time was hard, and Dad still treated him like a little kid, no matter how good Sam got at weapons or fighting drills. He got picked on at school constantly, and didn't fight back, because that'd draw attention to them, and they couldn't afford that. Dad had made that abundantly clear. So when he came home with a swollen lip and purpling cheek, Dean handed him an ice-pack, and kept his commentary to himself until Dad went out for food.

"Want me to kick his ass?" Dean asked. "Whatever turd did that to you?"

"No." Keeping his head bowed, Sam closed his eyes again. _Pray when you're angry_ , Dad always said, _Pray when you feel lost._

"Want me to pray with you?" Dean asked.

"Sure," Sam said, and Dean fell to his knees beside him; they both stayed quiet, the only sound the soft clicking of Dean's fingers moving over his rosary beads. Dad said praying with them made them more effective against evil. Sam had never gotten the hang of them, and Dad, oddly, hadn't pushed the issue.

 _If you can hear me,_ Sam thought, _I need your help. I'm sick of being picked on. I want to be big. Big enough that people won't start shit with me just for kicks._

The air around him whispered, like it always did at churches.

#

The next morning was Sunday. Dad and Dean had left early for a hunt, but Dad made Sam promise to attend service by himself—which he would have anyway, he knew the consequences if he didn't. At communion, Sam kneeled before the priest who smiled at him warmly, and tilted back his chin to drink from the chalice; expecting grape juice, Sam was shocked by the unexpected, different flavor of it, more bitter and viscous. They'd finally let him have wine. _This is my body. This is my blood._

#

Sam hit a massive growth spurt over the next twelve months, shooting up a good two feet until he was nearly Dean's height. Dean thought it was hilarious, and then got annoyed when Sam surpassed him. But Sam was thrilled.

He finally got to go on hunts too, and he was good. Sam prayed before his first hunt, and it went even better than he could have hoped. Even when he thought his shot had gone wide it didn't. The chupacabra he'd aimed at went down hard, but when he looked later he couldn't find the bullet wound.

Sam snuck out that night to pray. He kept expecting Dad to wake up from his spot on the motel couch, but he didn't.

The first church he found was small and plain, the door was open, and it was adorned only by a simple wooden cross. Thin slivers of glass in the walls cast jagged bars of moonlight across the pews where Sam sat.

"If you can hear me," Sam prayed as he dropped to his knees, _"Thank you."_ Sam kept his eyes open, noting how the light wavered as he spoke, like the air was distorting with heat.

#

The thrill of hunting only lasted two years or so. He'd thought maybe, that if he helped Dad enough, things between them would get better, but they never did. Dad's obsession only got worse, his need to hunt constant. Even Dean looked weary, though he never complained. 

Sam was fed up. So one night he feigned injury, exaggerating how much he'd hurt his ankle the day before when they'd full-on wrestled a water-serpent, and sat out the next hunt at the local church.

The guilt hit him, nearly overwhelming in its intensity, like everything lately. His eyes kept darting to the confessional, and finally he entered, the need to speak his thoughts out loud too powerful to ignore. He sat in the booth, waited for the priest to slide open the window between them. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been five months since my last confession."

"What troubles you, my son?"

"I lied to my dad and brother tonight. They wanted me to—I pretended to be injured so they wouldn't make me go with them."

"Where were they going?"

"They're...hunters. And I don't like hunting." Sam sighed, waiting for the priest to respond, but when he didn't, Sam continued, "But Dad—he really wants me to be a hunter like him."

"I see." The priest cleared his throat and looked through the slats at Sam. In the dim light of the booth, his eyes looked almost black. "What do _you_ want to be?"

"I—I don't know," Sam said, honestly. He'd never been asked that before, his future a given since he could remember. "I just know I don't want to live the life they do."

"Then don't."

Sam was shocked. He'd expected an admonishment, at least for the lying. Not encouragement. "But I—"

"You're young. You need help. There are others who can help you."

"I guess I need..." Sam thought hard about what he wanted. A normal life, away from churches and guns and evil. "I need a way _out_."

"You'll find one," the priest said, smiling, teeth glinting.

"Should I pray for forgiveness?"

The priest chuckled. "You've nothing to be forgiven for. But if it makes you feel better, I absolve you of all your perceived sins."

Sam nodded to himself, mildly comforted. He left the booth and sat back on the pew.

A few minutes later, the priest handed him a bottle of cherry soda. “Good luck with your new life.”

“Thanks.” Sam was a little flustered, but the priest’s gentle demeanor put him at ease. He sat on the steps out front, relishing the warm California night, and drank the whole soda before Dad and Dean came to pick him up.

On their drive out of town, they passed by Stanford University.

#

Sam applied for college and got a full ride; he was ecstatic the day he got his acceptance letter, despite the fury of both Dad and Dean.

"You can't just leave!" Dean snapped. Then more quietly, he added, "Please don't leave me alone with him. I can't do this without you."

"Then you leave too. Come with me!" Sam said.

“You know I can’t. Dad needs me.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Sam insisted. “This is his life, it doesn’t have to be ours.”

“It is ours,” Dean said somberly. “We owe it to Mom.”

“I—“ Sam struggled for words, jumbled thoughts racing through his mind: _I don’t even remember her. She wouldn’t have wanted this. Would she?_

And then Dad rounded the corner, face flushed, hand clutching a bottle of beer in a death grip. “Sam, I _forbid_ you to leave.”

“You can’t do that,” Sam said.

“You wanna bet?” Dad asked, slamming the bottle down hard on the side table.

Dean made a move to step between them, but Sam stopped him. He felt a surge of anger well up inside of him, pure and righteous, and suddenly he was fearless. There were others out there that would help him, that _had_ helped him. And they were listening now: he could hear their whispers in the air around him, felt a crackle like static electricity, racing down his arms and into his hands. “I’m leaving, Dad,” Sam said. “And you’re not going to stop me.”

Dad stared at him, expressionless for a long heartbeat, and then blinked, turned on his heel and left the room.

The air still felt thick as lead, and Sam’s shoulders were still tensed, ready for a fight. But Dean pulled him into a hug anyway and said, “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

#

Sam was free. He was happy. He dove into school, enthusiastic and hungry for a life of his own. He was so busy studying at first that it took him a few weeks to remember to pray.

“If you can hear me,” he said, “thank you.”

Even the whispers in the room seemed happy for him, and they answered, with a question, _“What do you want? What else do you want? What can we give you?”_

Sam thought of his brother, who he’d left behind, who he missed, even though he didn’t regret his decision, not even for a minute. “A friend,” Sam said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The next morning, he got a roommate named Tyson Brady.

#

It was all going well. Better than Sam had hoped, better than he’d dreamed. He aced every test, Brady was a constant companion and helped keep his mind off of Dad and Dean.

It was all going well, until one day when Sam got back to his dorm room and found Brady bound to a chair and gagged. As Sam stood there in shock, the door closed behind him, and Dad said, “He’s a demon, Sam.”

Sam swallowed, breath caught in his throat, anger and guilt forming stormclouds in his mind. Dad had snapped. Sam had left, and Dad had snapped. And where the hell was Dean? “Dad, let him go.”

“Sure. After I exorcise him.”

Brady’s muffled screaming drowned beneath the pounding of Sam’s heartbeat in his ears.

“I said, _let him go_ ,” Sam repeated, anger winning out over guilt.

And his father obeyed. He dropped to his knees by Brady’s side, pulled his knife from its sheath and cut through the rope. Brady jerked free of the last of the rope, nearly tripping over the chair, and scrambled onto his bed, pulling his knees up to his chest with wide, frightened eyes.

Sam’s hands were twitching, static crackling in his palms. Like an overlay on top of reality, he saw a different version of himself, older, stronger, picking his father up by the neck, crushing his windpipe beneath his fingers.

John began to choke, and fell to the ground, clutching at his throat.

Sam ignored him and moved to sit next to Brady, pulling the gag from his mouth.

Brady slumped against him, shuddering as he sobbed quietly.

“ _Sam_ ,” John gasped, from the floor.

“Go,” Sam said. “Don’t ever come back.”

John pushed himself to his feet and staggered out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Brady’s shoulders hitched, and Sam pulled him into a tighter hug.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “That won’t happen again.”

 _If you can hear me,_ Sam prayed, _I get it now. I understand._

#

That night, as Brady slept, Sam went to the chapel near school.

He bowed his head, closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. “I know you can hear me…” The pews around him creaked, the air grew heavy and hot, and when Sam opened his eyes every seat around him was filled, every head turned toward him with rapt, shining black eyes. “We’ve got work to do.”


End file.
